The students had gone through a parade of literature teachers—one left for maternity, another quit in a month. So when Anna walked in, young and neatly dressed, they didn’t expect much.
Her first class felt more like a trial than a lesson.
“No notebooks!” someone yelled.
“Nice grandma glasses,” another sneered.
Laughter, TikTok videos, paper airplanes, even a donkey sound effect filled the room.
Then Anna did something unexpected—she sat on the edge of her desk and spoke calmly.
“I wasn’t always a teacher. A year ago, I worked in a cancer ward… with teens your age.”
The room went quiet.
“One boy, 17, could barely hold a book. He told me, ‘I wish I had loved reading sooner. I’d give anything to sit in a regular classroom again.’”
She looked around. “You’re living the dream that dying kids begged for. And you’re wasting it.”
She didn’t yell or threaten. Just opened the attendance book and continued the lesson.
No one interrupted again.
